


Shattered

by AugustusFeuer



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Aliens, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Drama, Gen, Inner Dialogue, Internal Conflict, Intertrilogy, Major Original Character(s), Mystery, No pairings - Freeform, OC, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, POV Female Character, POV Male Character, POV Minor Character, POV Multiple, POV Original Character, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Plot Twists, Tagging more would spoil so I suggest be patient, The Dark Side of the Force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-04-11 01:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4415588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustusFeuer/pseuds/AugustusFeuer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DISCONTINUED, probably // A family torn apart. A Dark Lord captured. The Rebel bombing on Lavach didn't just leave destruction in its wake - it paved way for a new hope for the galaxy. (Set 5 years after Revenge of the Sith.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Shattered

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! You might have heard of me before, writing Bundeslihaha or, you know, Star Wars as "underscored umlaut". I find the name overly long and ridiculous, so I changed it to Regster(fanfiction.net/u/5095722), where I also post this fic :D
> 
> Disclaimer: Star Wars belongs to Emperor Mouse.

"...Oh, gods..."

"I can't believe it..."

"...impossible!"

"How...?"

Your eyes open to a chaotic blur of light and colors and sound (but not smell, you no longer have that) and oh so many sensations you're overwhelmed, _oh Force oh gods help me out_ you should think, but your mind is just too blank, too tired, and your eyes feel like closing again...

"...awake..."

"...restrained..."

Your world turns dark as your eyelids touch the tired circles under your eyes, but the voices are still there, muted whispers reverberating, melting into nothing like ice in blistering heat...

Heat. Fire. _Pandemonium._

Your eyes snap open, just like the explosion that rocked your world a _day? week? month? year? lifetime?_ ago. Where are you now? Why do you feel so weak, so naked, so... empty? Why don't you remember anything before this situation (whatever this is), just jumbled, meaningless flashes? Why can you only remember one thing? This ubiquitous, intangible (yet you know it's reachable, _somehow_ ) presence... What is this thing? Why is it following you, promising things beyond your reach?

Thinking has taken too much of your forcefully-repressed energy. You suddenly remember that you should breathe. You gasp and gasp, but your chest is tight—thankfully, you notice the oxygen mask clinging to your face. Your ruined lungs sing in joy, expanding and contracting in relief as precious air fill your alveoli.

But not in a nearly enough amount. Enough to keep yourself awake, but not refreshed. Just like those days with your master— _oh Force, I'm remembering! I'm remembering! I'm—_

"I see you're awake,"

You take another breath, trying your best to focus on the face— if there _is_ indeed a face—of the speaker before you, but no matter how watery your eyes are becoming, your vision still blurs in places, and you squint as another memory comes back to mind: you require optical aid.

"...Can you...can you see me?" the voice asks, hesitant. You shake your head. No use lying here, you think, but the back of your mind keeps tingling, warning you for reasons unknown...

You hear some rustling as the only violet in the white room moves towards you. "Can you see me now?" Your eyes try to meet his (or are they _hers?)_ , to no avail. You shake your head once more. "But you can hear me, right? Sir?"

 _Sir._ The title tugs on your subconscious.

 _But why would anyone call me that? I'm not..._ That tingling again.

"Sir? Can you hear my voice?"

You nod.

"Very good," the voice says. "Now I would like your cooperation in this."

 _Cooperation?_ Why is that word so familiar... _Painfully_ so...

.

.

_"You've failed again!"_

_Then fire flies from pale, gnarled hands..._

.

.

"...Sir?"

(The violet being's voice cuts your train of thoughts, but for once, you're thankful. You remember what it entailed.)

You incline your head in acknowledgment.

"We will retrieve your armor before the questioning session,"

You freeze, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. _Armor,_ he says. Armor. Armor means protection. Support. From blaster bolts. Vibroblades. From danger... Life-support! Your memories begin to trickle back into you, one wheeze of a respirator at a time...

The violet being speaks again, but he misunderstands. "We'll only ask you a few questions, there's no need to worry..."

Few questions? Why do they need to do so? You only remember a "mission"... A royal family... Then everything went black. And there was heat, and pain, excruciating pain... What have you done wrong?

"...Lord Vader?"

The moment you hear that name, you remember everything.


	2. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Welcome to the next chapter of "Shattered", young one.
> 
> (And a huge thank you for the three guests who gave kudos! I hope this update meets your expectations~)

Finera pulled her hood lower, covering her face, before gesturing to her little brother to do the same. There was a scuffle of rough cloth (the cloaks had been extracted from a random citizen's conveniently-placed basket case), then his small hands fitted back into her palm. With sweaty hands, she squeezed them reassuringly- well, she tried, but she had never seen such dark alleys and unfriendly faces before. To make it worse, the intoxicating smell of spice filled the air, competing with the thick, gray smoke from the factories that provided for Lavach's citizens (her homeworld had no notable export- _save for Rebels, apparently,_ she muttered, bitterness and grief twisting her voice) and the dumpster just around the corner.

"Fin," a small voice, her brother, cut into her increasingly dark thoughts. "Where're we going?"

She may be a royal, sheltered and spoiled, but she’d had basic self-defense training. And enough brains to fend for herself and little Quinze. "Not now, Quin," she whispered to his head, pulling the five-year-old closer to the folds of her cloak. They didn't have contacts or anything else that could help them hide or go off planet. She'd contemplated stowing away, but judging from the giant spearhead in the sky, that wasn't an option.

Finera then led her brother to said dumpster-corner, ignoring the illegal dealers as best as she could. When two men fought for a suspicious-looking box, vibroblades poised to kill; her hands flew to Quin's eyes. She knew he'd probably lost his innocence after the attack on the Palace, but she didn't wish to scar him more. Inching further from the scene, she cupped a hand over her nose and mouth, barely keeping herself from vomiting when the sharp, coppery scent of blood added to the assault on her olfactory senses.

"Fin," Quin's muffled sob was emphasized by the frantic tugging on her cloak. "I'm scared."

She shushed him softly, awkwardly stroking his messy bangs to the rhythm of their joined footsteps.

The sound wasn't that loud, but paranoia caused her to perk up anyway. She knew what that sound meant. Lifting Quinze's body to her chest, she quickly shifted her gaze to the ground and hastened her pace with as little noise as humanly possible, having read enough crime novels to know that inconspicuous beings had a better chance to live in any underworld.

Evidently, it wasn't enough. The crowd grew louder and the clicking became more abrupt, followed by rapping feet in armored boots...

So she ran.

She ran and ran and ran without looking, pushing through beings and contraptions of every kind, tripping and panting and sweating as her heart pounded against Quin's head. She cursed herself, her luck, and Imperials with words a princess shouldn't have known, but she figured it wouldn't matter if they were dead. She had to protect Quin, fulfill her parents' unsaid dying wish...

"There they are! Set for stun!"

The trooper's order wasn't even notice–bloodrush and barely remembered prayers to the gods were the only things in her ears. In her mind was only safety.

"Fin!"

Her feet, adrenaline-fueled (and torn and bruised, she shouldn't have worn these blasted heels) as they were, stopped as the shrill cry broke her concentration. She stumbled forward, falling into an undignified heap, not that she cared about that right now. With a _gasp-cringe-gasp-curse-gasp_ of pain, shaky hands gripped a handful of earth and tiny, sharp pebbles, propping their master's aching body up... Finera kept her eyes shut as she straightened herself in vain, willing her muscles to just refresh, quick, quick, quick, Quinze completely forgotten in the wake of bleeding knees. 

The stun bolts came before she could lift her head.

 

.:oOo:.

 

"Get up."

Gloved hands hoisted her upwards, but she didn't quite register the touch. Despite this, she could make up an all-too-familiar white... Her first instinct was to break free, to escape, but she felt... so... _sleepy..._

She slumped to the trooper's shoulder, oblivious to the big, ugly bruise forming on her forehead.

 

.:oOo:.

 

The Imperial officer strode purposefully to the detention center, the IT-O hovering behind him all the way. He had been tasked on extracting the whereabouts of the Rebels who had taken Lord Vader hostage from... Quinze Randa, he reminded himself. The young prince of Lavach, a seemingly backwards planet on the Mid Rim.

The planet isn't as backwards as we think, then, he thought, if it had hidden that many Rebels... and arranged a bombing so near the Palace without wiping out the royal family. And actually had _Darth kriffing Vader_ hostage! The man shook his head in bewilderment. Anyone who'd heard of the dark lord's armor and strange powers would.

Forcing himself out of his thoughts of bombs and the possible death of his commander, he directed his feet to the right direction (those 'engineers' never made those 'directions' clear) and focused on the prisoner's bio again.

A grainy holo stared back at him. The prince's features were rounded, terribly so, and his smiling face, a shade of olive while his bangs covered one of his twinkling dark eyes, was brighter than the sun of his home planet.

He looked so young, the Imperial thought. Too young. When had this holo been taken?

The man scrolled down the document. _Royal crest, name, homeworld...date of birth..._  

The numbers _16:5:19_ greeted him.

He froze. The photo was taken recently and the prince had been born just days before the birth of the Empire. He pursed his lips together, suddenly feeling cold. _Now is the year 21,_ he thought, appalled. _Who in the nine hells made this order? Who in their right mind would interrogate a five-year-old? Why not the princess?_ She looked like she was in her mid-to-late teens, judging from the troopers' story, he could be used as a means of persuasion... He quickly closed the boy's bio and read the girl's to make sure.

 

_Full name: Her Highness, Princess Finera Randa_

_Homeworld: Lavach, Noipa System, Mid Rim_

_Born: 4:6:18_  

 

The girl was seventeen, he sighed in relief. But could he disobey a direct order?

 

.:oOo:.

 

"Order!"

High Command fell silent as Mon Mothma's voice rang across the room. The former senator of Chandrila fought the ever-increasing urge to yell at her fellow Alliance leaders, who had debated for how long, she had no desire to know.

Unfortunately, the silence didn't last long. Shouts of bloody murder and lifelong imprisonments flew in and out Mon's ears. She had known from the start that most of her colleagues wished for Vader to be executed for his crimes right away, but she knew the Sith Lord had valuable information that could be of immense help to their cause.

She risked a glance at her friend Bail Organa, who watched the scene with no less worry. He thought the same as her, but how could they quench the bloodlust of the majority? She may be their revered leader, but what she had was far from absolute power. Democracy must be upheld, every decision made had to be for the greater good. The needs of one had to be sacrificed for those of many...

 _Are wants needs, though?_ she wondered. She herself—and her loved ones—hadn't been exempt from Vader's cruelty, and no matter how much she tried to hide it, the thirst for retribution was still there...

But sense won over vengeance, and Mon Mothma's lips parted towards reason.

 

.:oOo:.

 

Finera woke up to the telltale beeps and clicks of operating computers—and her aching body, she groaned, the realization literally hitting her like a ton of rocks. She found that her joints were stiff and her throat parched, and gods, was that her stomach?

"Ah, you're finally up," an unfamiliar voice said silkily, "I almost think you wouldn't, Your Highness."

Her then-groggy eyes widened at the sight of the voice's owner. In the dimly lit, cramped space, the colorful lights of the console cast an eerie glow around him. The dull light of security footages illuminated his face—lined with age and a wicked smile.

"Princess Finera, isn't it?" the man asked, moving closer towards her like a hungry predator to its prey, "second in line for Lavach's throne?"

A spike of panic shot through her at his recognition. The drug-induced fog clouding her mind suddenly evaporated, flooding her with fear and dread, and _oh gods where's Quinze why isn't he with me is he alive is he safe, why in the krething hells aren't I with him—_

She screamed and squirmed and tried to wriggle herself to freedom, but was stopped by a pair of cold, strong hands reinforcing her restraints. One of said hands proceeded to lift her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Don't worry, Princess," he purred, "your brother is safe for the time being."

Finera's breath hitched at the implications. "The time being?" she cried, but the Imperial officer offered no answer, pushing her seat forward instead. "W-what are you doing? What d'you mean?"

"His safety, Your Highness, is in your hands," the man replied.

"My... my hands?" she couldn't help but blurt out.

The man's smile widened. "You'll see soon enough."

And saw it she did. The largest screen, the one directly facing her, showed a scene she'd hoped she would never witness.

Quin, her innocent brother, her only remaining family, was curling in a fetal position, a syringe right above his exposed neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have three more finished chapters in my treasury, so I hope the next update won't take as long as this one ^^
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Conflict

"...Lord Vader?"

The moment you hear that name, you remember everything.

A woman crying, warm brown eyes never leaving the hands that took you away...

And years pass after that, each filled with training. Or torture. You couldn't distinguish between the two.

The Force, the power at your fingertips that was much more than the weaker nuances your master undisclosed, you used in secret to sense, to manipulate, to destroy...

But lies couldn't be kept under wraps forever. Whips. Water. Electricity. Simulations. Never knowing whether or not you were alive, driven with only hatred and a desire to survive...

And came more missions. Pirates, mercenaries, you met all kinds of people with unique minds and fighting style.

You remember dodging blow after blow and running for dear life in bustling undercities, be it from a fist or a knife or a ticking detonator...

Then fire. Blinding lights. The unforgiving whirr of machines drilling into your limbs, tearing away your humanity cell by cell....

The day you earned your new name plays before you like an interactive holodrama. You cannot stop or alter its flow, but you feel the words roll on your tongue as your old self ebbed away, out of your armor into the world you can no longer touch—

It was the last nail to the coffin. Your raging emotions burst through your corporeal form. Before, it was boiling, simmering in the distance, shaking the medical paraphernalia around you, but now glass shatter, machines overload and the lights overhead short-circuit; you can feel the three beings literally freeze in fear and the gaping hole inside you devours it.

Despite your sudden assault, one of them broke through the storm, shaky feet taking slow, careful steps. You sneer at the Twi'lek's pitiful attempt and the women's lack thereof—

Until a sharp pain pulls you out of consciousness.

* * *

And you are falling.

The wind rushes in your ears, whipping your hair in every direction as the ground rushes up to meet you.

You try to see through misty eyes, blinking back tears to see only hands, black hands clawing and pushing and tangling each other in such a high speed they blur—

But you see that they are reaching out for you. For your body, your heart, your very soul.

 _Join us,_ they whisper, voices of steel and honey coalescing into one, inviting, waiting ever so patiently, _and we'll never let you fall like this again..._

You want to take that hand, to take on the galaxy and prove yourself that you are worthy of that power, of the wholeness you lost and never quite reached—

Suddenly, a bright light seeps in from the cracks on the stone walls surrounding you, washing them in a color so pure you feel _small-helpless-afraid-_ ashamed...

Flashes of your life—the people you met, the choices you took, the little things you took for granted, _everything_ —start to play before your eyes. _What have you done right?_ another voice yells. _How many innocents have you killed? How many people had their homes destroyed by your hand?_

A part of you rebels, shifting the blame to others—the mother who abandoned you, the devil who caged you, and of course, the common people who refused the iron fist, the infallible wisdom of the empire you serve.

But the other, the one with common sense, remembers all the choices made with less-than-pure intentions, the fire of a ruined world, the dying eyes pleading for the war to just end...

 _No! Return to us,_ says the darkness. _We will help you be strong again. So strong that he will never find a reason to end you._

 _Don't!_ the light counters. _Remember the lies, the hell he put you through! Think about the lives lost, the rights ignored..._

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately block the voices out.

Finally, the walls part, revealing two familiar figures—the female Human and the male Twi'lek—arguing about something.

Seeing the obviously friendly way they bicker, despite the woman's rough exterior, you are brought back to the days before all this, days of reconnaissance and disguise, making false friends and stabbing them in the back afterwards ( _"for the greater good,"_ you hear someone— _yourself?_ —mutter)...

_Do you really miss those days?_

At that question, the light and darkness return ferociously, demanding answer after answer after answer.

But you focus on the two beings instead; their voices are getting louder and louder...

* * *

 

 _Stars,_ Nerek thought, burying his face in his hands, _why did I accept this job again?_

Well... it wasn't like he hated it, not really... though the pay wasn't very good—he'd even suspected that his portable HoloNet receiver was worth more than his salary—at least he had a relatively steady roof over him and a mattress to sleep on.

But this was just too much.

He let out another groan as the still-empty Patient Record glared back at him. One of his profession's most important mantra was "expect the unexpected", especially in an organization like the Alliance, but judging from his initial overly dramatic reaction over that—he wouldn't mention that... _patient's_ name again unless it was absolutely necessary. He couldn't associate the words—Nerek mentally bleeped them out—with utter death and destruction anymore. The image of the person under the armor re-ignited that spark he'd thought was long gone. That very image made him ask himself, how could something—someone—so vulnerable, almost _beautiful_ , could turn into such a monster? How could the Rebels not know this before? How this? How that? How—

He gritted his teeth in frustration. If he'd never envied human hair before, he did now. He felt like pulling something out of his head, but pulling his own lekkus was stupid, not to mention dangerous... A list of side effects came unbidden to his mind (no thanks to his medical training), stabbing holes into his head in the form of a migraine.

He should get some sleep, he thought, eyeing the chrono on the edge of his desk, but Command wanted this report on theirs in... he squinted, less than an hour.

_Less than an hour?_

That meant a detailed explanation before the Rebellion's highest in a few minutes... could he even present anything in this state, though?

He looked back at the unchanged form on the datapad, pursing his lips together.

Should I tell them about the... (he squeezed his eyes shut, stylus almost breaking under the pressure of his tightening fist) ...man behind the mask?

Should he?

It was his duty, wasn't it?

That stupid Imperial, face mangled yet so young, _far too young_ , came back with full force—oh stars, he had to remember what he was fighting for! But... but Vader seemed so helpless, so human... he _couldn't_!

 _But Vader isn't a mere enemy, Nerek!_ another voice, no, voices of the not-so-imaginary slaves of the Empire, of all the dead Jedi, of the oppressed civilians for the seemingly endless war, cried. _He's the enemy! Don't you dare forget what he's done to you, to your homeworld, to the galaxy! Don't you ever! You can do this! You should do this!_

The Twi'lek massaged his forehead with a hand and propped his pounding head with the other. _Shut up,_ Nerek willed himself, _shut up shut up shut up!_

"Etlaas,"

Nerek jumped at the cold touch of an all-too-familiar hand. His head snapped back, leaving a cramped neck in its wake, but the pain was far in the back of his head. What's important, he thought, eyebrows furrowing, is _how did she get here?_

"Ziven!" he cried, swiveling his chair to face the Human medic, who had her green yes set in her usual concerned-yet-pissed look. "What are you doing here?!"

Iché Ziven, who claimed to be the roughest Nubian in history, always meant well, but her methods of encouragement were... er, questionable. One would've thought being a doctor changed that, but— "Looking after you, of course," she snapped back, slamming a cup of steaming caf onto his table, "and don't look at me like that! At least I didn't go all out and dump a bucket of icy water on you."

Nerek's stomach dropped at her too-loud voice. "Quiet!" he hissed, pointing at the figure just behind the looking glass.

"Oh, yeah, Vader," Ziven drawled, glancing at the unconscious Imperial, "the Dark Lord who's actually—"

_"Sssh!"_

She scoffed, planting her fists on her hips. "Fine. Now drink the caf, I'll help you with the form."

The eyes peering from the large mug were full of gratitude.

"You're welcome," Ziven said as she settled into the seat beside him, stylus at the ready.

* * *

 

If Iché had been frustrated before, she had no idea what to call this annoying mix of worry, impatience, and, well, annoyance. Etlaas was usually the sensible one among the _not-exactly-a-clique-but-more-like-forcefully-united-Empire-haters_ of field medics, but when something started tickling his conscience, tugging his pansy heartstrings, he would panic like all hell broke loose.

 _That's what you get when you take a fresh graduate_ _—_ _one with a severe book obsession, she might add_ _—_ _to this madness,_ she thought, muttering expletives under her breath for the man's persuasive best friend.

"Ziven, are you sure you're writing that?" Etlaas asked, peering from behind her shoulder, his voice barely a squeak.

Iché let out a long-suffering sigh. She didn't give a kriff if they looked unprofessional, she'd even grow out her hair just to make her colleague man up. "Nerek, dear," she replied through gritted teeth, "do you think you can lie on a blasted medical record?" She scanned the form downwards and tsked. "How old is Vader, anyway? Have you analyzed the DNA samples?"

Nerek's hot, short puffs of breath sent shivers down her spine.

"Believe it or not," he answered glumly, with the tiniest hint of... _sorrow? confusion? anger?_ She couldn't quite put her finger on it... activating the scanner to its backlog menu.

When the screen flashed on, she squinted, craning her neck. The little numerals seemed to be mocking her, what with their... _I don't believe it,_ she denied, rubbing her eyes. And she did a double take. Still, the numbers neither increased nor turned into a 'Congratulations! You have been pranked!'.

Nerek gave her a weak nod.

"Twenty-eight? Palpatine's friggin' _heir_ is younger than me?"

"By two years," she heard him mutter, but she ignored it, slumping back to her chair with a hand scratching her chin. Vader's parents must've done a really poor job... or were they proud of their _prodigious_ child? Shaking her head, she continued filling the blanks, occasionally asking Etlaas for confirmation or additional data, as he'd been the one who actually tended to Vader. She kind-of felt sorry for him, as she and Cora were the seniors (well, in a sense, as she'd been Cora's apprentice in the Galactic Senate Medical Service), but gods knew Nerek needed it. _You can't have too much experience in the medical field,_ her professor had said, presenting the dumbstruck youngsters a slurring, shaking, ice-cold almost-corpse in all its glory...

She shook off the memory again in favor of completing the form, which was now almost full.

"Anything else?" she inquired, setting the stylus on the desk.

Etlaas pondered this for several seconds, biting his upper lip as he did so. "Well," he began, straightening the wrinkles on his coat as he met her questioning gaze with a small smile, "I did find something interesting... But you gotta thank Cora. She gave me the idea."

He thrust his hand into his inner pocket, producing a datapad. "She consulted with Tech—you know, Florence and Geimar and all that, and behold!" With a low, accented voice and a fluid hand gesture towards the 'pad, he mimicked the the other woman's enthusiasm. "The specs of Vader's entire armor!"

"Wow," Iché breathed out, marveling at the sheer complexity of the life-support system. She looked up at the younger man. "What did she find?"

His face looked torn, as if he and Cora had had another of their rare, heated arguments and lost. The two had always been the brains, but Cora's three decades of service (as opposed to Etlaas' three years), had desensitized her. The Mirialan could position herself as a companion for the patients, but she would die before she sugarcoated anything she said.

"This..." He gulped, "this suit is substandard."

Iché had expected something far-fetched for an answer, but this was far from it. "What do you mean?" she asked, zooming into the waste management system, "these models are quite new, they've been proven safe for most species in various cases including—"

Etlaas looked outraged, long fingers enlarging the inside view hundredfold."Can't you see it? These prosthetics are made of an inferior alloy, for one! The hinges rust, not unlike ordinary metals, making it necessary for routine repairs. The pistons are strong, yes, but the design is too skeletal to effectively—" he shook his head in frustration. "And look at the wires," he panted, "they also need constant maintenance... Not to mention the foreign stimulants..." He trailed off, wiping his tears.

She blanched. _(When did he cry? Why?)_ "Foreign... stimulants?"

"Exactly," he continued, pulling out a vial from the pocket of his coat. "Some of the chemicals, like Rennod-3, trigger violent reactions by sending certain signals through neurons—the ones leading to the frontal lobe, and this one (he put down the vial and sifted through the numerous intravenous feeds in the suit, stopping at a glowing liquid)... while it increases Vader's pain threshold, it also influences the subconscious, particularly emotions, in a way that cannot be explained in medical terms... this substance can't be found in the Alliance database, either. Cora asked the slicers to hack into the Imperial's, but..."

"It's firewalled," Iché finished grimly, "but by whom?"

"Someone up high, I'd reckon," Etlaas sighed, "nothing in the HoloNet could resist Geimar's tricks before..."

"The Imperial databank is a separate branch from the HoloNet," another voice cut in, followed by an irritated Cora. "Can't you two stop fighting like children and look at the time?"

Iché scrambled to the chronometer. "Great kriffing—"

 _"Iché,"_ Cora said sternly.

With a huff, she snatched the form from her colleague's desk and turned to him. "Any last-minute changes, Etlaas?"

"No," he said quietly. Too quietly. _(What's he planning?)_

"You, Cora?"

The middle-aged woman gave the form a long look. "You've heard about the armor's defects, I take it?" she asked. The Nubian nodded. "Write them all," Cora ordered. "Quickly."

"Let me do it."

Dismissing her previous thought as paranoia, Iché handed him the pad. Nerek scrambled for the stylus, pouring his heart out, and signed. The women followed.

"Done," Cora said hastily, saving the document as they made their way to the Command Center. "Now let's go."

Neither she nor Ziven saw Nerek crossing his fingers, muttering a prayer.


	4. Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not a man, not a mouse.

_"His safety, Your Highness, is in your hands,"_

"My... my hands?" she couldn't help but blurt out.

The man's smile widened. "You'll see soon enough."

And saw it she did. The largest screen, the one directly facing her, showed a scene she'd hoped she would never witness.

Quin, her innocent brother, her only remaining family, was curling in a fetal position, a syringe right above his exposed neck.

Another thousand thoughts ran in Finera's head as she took in the image before her; and it made her sick, sick with worry, sick with panic, sick with the selfish urge to kill the Imperials—and herself, and Quin as well—and just be done with it. The suppressed hysteria shook her form harder, stomach twisting, bile rising to her throat as the restraints choked her.

"How dare you?!" Her voice was hoarse, nothing like the regal tone she'd used only a few _hours? days? weeks?_ ago, but she forced herself to stand up to the Imperial scum, ignoring the stabbing sensation in her vocal cords. _"How... karking... dare you?!"_

She wanted nothing more than to cry on her mother's shoulder while she held her close, stroking her hair with a warm hand, but her will to live, her lessons in diplomacy, kicked in, restarting the gears in her brain. _Keep a cool head, Finera, calm down.... Breathe in, breathe out, in, and out, go on, deeply.... You'll be safe, Fin. Quin will be safe. Simply tell him the oh-so-painful truth: your family was completely uninvolved. The Alliance planned the entire attack without notifying Lavach's authorities, they had spies all over the Senate. Surely he'd understand. How many times had the Emperor flaunted his new, more secure and just government?_ She took another deep breath, filled with new resolve.

"I have diplomatic immunity," she continued, slow but steady; she was next in line for the throne, she had a brother and a world to protect, "I—"

The Imperial's face hardened. "You dare beg for mercy when you have committed treason against the Empire?"

"Treason?" she echoed, infusing as much incredulity as possible while still maintaining eye contact _(no time to blink back her tears, just stay strong, Fin, for Quinze)_ , "it was an attack by _(—the Alliance wasn't an option anymore—)_ local insurgents, Commander, petty criminals who fail to see how the Empire brought Lavach peace," it took all of her will not to retch at the lie _(five years! Five years too late to realize...!)_ , "and prosperity... (She steeled herself for the next part, shaking her head in feigned dismay as she looked down in mourning,) They are dissatisfied with my father's—"

"What a story," the Imperial drawled, his eyes chips of ice. "Petty criminals do not have the capability or resources to bring down the 501st Legion _and_ Lord Vader, Your Highness."

The last words sent her head spinning. She bit her lips, clenching her fists tightly _(take a deep breath, Finera, in, and out, and in, and out...)_ , thinking, how the hell had her parents smuggled the Rebels in? How had they even made contact with their leaders? How could the small rebellion even manage this? Why hadn't they trusted her?

And most importantly, why had they died?

"Surprised, Your Highness?" The Imperial's tone was mocking, but she wouldn't lose. She couldn't. So she met his gaze squarely. "I assure you, Commander, I know _nothing_ of the Alliance."

"Very well," the man replied, turning to the console. "Perhaps your _brother_ is more willing to cooperate."

"No!" she cried, her facade vanishing to thin air as she struggled against her restraints, kicking, pushing, biting— "He's just a _boy!_ You can't question him, he knows nothing!"

At the sudden strain, she gagged—the urge, the need to spit everything out overcame her, but she couldn't afford to look even more helpless, she had to stop him somehow!

 _Click._ A buzz of static, and Finera's eyes widened as a screen showed another interrogation chamber, its clean white walls caging Quin, waiting for the taste of his young blood. _What's he doing? Is he doing what I think he's doing? Please, don't let him do it!_

She craned her neck, willing herself not to swallow (or expel) the thick liquid filling her mouth... Seconds stretched into an eternity as she waited, praying fervently to the gods to block out the gruesome images— _Please, I beg of you, don't let him hurt Quin..._

"Start the interrogation," the Imperial said coldly. "Level Two."

"Fierfek!" she choked out between coughs. A mixture of blood and what she thought was her last breakfast splattering the Imperial's uniform, her restraints, the floor, "He's five, you monster! _Five!_ He can't possibly keep vital information!"

Quin's interrogator seemed to be hesitant, sending the commander to a rage. "Level Two, Lieutenant! _Now!"_

The interrogator quickly obeyed. All the while, Finera kept yelling for him to stop, that her brother obviously had no hand in the kidnapping or the bombing, to no avail.

After agonizing hours of watching her little brother beaten for information he didn't have, the interrogator finally came to his blasted senses.

"Sir," he said. The addressed barked an inquiry. "The boy hasn't responded," her brother's torturer announced. She prayed his silence, his eerily still form, didn't mean his death. "Should I use Level Three?"

Relief coursed through her body when she knew he was alive. She smiled, letting the tears of joy wetting her cheeks, but the words 'Level Three' brought her back to reality, guilt and horror crushing her hopes. " _No!_ Not Level Three! He's innocent! _Please!"_

The Imperial commander regarded her for a moment, a pale hand rubbing his chin in thought. Finera leaned forward as much as she could, body tense with anticipation.

"Stop the interrogation, Lieutenant," he finally commanded. "The princess is right. A five-year-old wouldn't know about such rebellious dealings," he stated. Finera felt a great weight lifted from her shoulder and thanked the gods like never before...

"But a _seventeen-year-old_ might."

.:oOo:.

Quin was still crouched on his 'bed'; he couldn't move... _It hurts, Mom,_ he thought, pressing his bruised cheek to the cold slab, _it hurts!_

 _And he's scary, h_ e cried silently, glancing at the man with the sharp things and the flying droid, _Fin, help me! I don't want needle! I don't wanna que-sho-ning!_

He didn't even understand what the scary man had said! _Why am I here? What's 'Rebellion'? I don't know anything!_

"Answer me, boy," the scary man growled, pulling him by the collar. He shook his head for the hundredth time _(Fin, help me! Where are you?)_ "I don't know!"

The man wouldn't take it though. Slamming him back to the slab, he repeated his question. But he didn't understand him! All he knew was that it had something to do with Mom and Dad and a bomb, but what? Fin must know this, right? She _had_ to! She'd tell him everything and get them out of here! "Fin!" he called out on top of his lungs, _"Fin!"_

"Be quiet!"

He only cried harder. "I wanna go home!"

"You will never go home if you don't answer my questions, boy!"

Quin curled, hugging himself tighter. _I wish Mom can hug me... But she's gone... where? And Fin! Where are you, Fin?_

"Fin!" he called out again, rolling his body to the direction of the wall. "Fin, it hurts!"

An annoyed noise from behind caused him to perk up. "The boy hasn't responded, Sir," the scary man said. Sir? Quin wondered. Who is he talking to?

"Should I use Level Three?"

Those words sent a chill down his spine, ringing bells in his brain. _But what's Level Three? Fin?_

She answered it for him, but not in the way he wanted. _"No!"_ The bells were ringing louder and faster and— _"Not Level Three! He's innocent! Please!"_

But it was no use. The man was closing in, the flying droid blocking all light—

_"Stop the interrogation, Lieutenant."_

Quin's hands move slowly from his ears as he slowly uncurled himself and opened his eyes. Light seeped in through his lashes, not bright or warm, but enough for him to hope. _Please let us go home... Mom... Dad... Fin... I miss you..._

Pain exploded in his body when the hidden speakers screamed with the voice of his beloved sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahaha. Tell me what you think. But I think you must be happy with the triple update (or maybe even quadruple, if Bundeslihaha rears its ugly head again!), yes?
> 
> Just kidding... or maybe not. Comments would be really appreciated, though.
> 
> See you next chapter,  
> Reg :)


	5. Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Hannah for the comment - may the Force be with you, dear!
> 
> Disclaimer: Star Wars does not belong to me. Don't you all know that already?!

_Deep breaths, Nerek._

Those were the words his father had always said before he left for school, before he braved the galaxy's good and bad. It had always worked wonders (especially when he remembered to do it correctly- _back straight, lekkus relaxed, inhaling with the nose and releasing the air in a slow blow_ ), but now, it did nothing to alleviate his headache/inner conflict.

 _Maybe you're just crazy,_ his brother's voice would have joked, and he remembered always dismissing it. He'd had a happy childhood, a comfortable life. No traumatic events, none at all. He'd been a hundred percent sane.

'Had been' being the operative words, he couldn't help but think.

"Galaxy to Etlaas," Ziven's voice cut into his thoughts like icy water to the face. "We have arrived."

He jerked out of his thoughts, and noticed that his surroundings had changed completely. No longer could he see familiar 21-Bs, or familiar guards, or a familiar face. Even Cora and Ziven seemed to become one with the austere corridor, their neutral expressions far away. "Oh," he bit out, "I'm sorry..."

"It's alright," Cora said, resting a calming hand on his shoulder. "I know it's your first time,"

Nerek nodded miserably.

"But that is no excuse for panicking. Trust yourself and just take it slow. Small, careful steps are better than an unplanned leap - we'll help you, Nerek." A smile stretched the Mirialan's face, but coupled by her shadowed brown eyes, Nerek couldn't help but be reminded of the harsh fact of his elder colleague's life... He shook off the thought. Cora was right. He had to compose himself. Focus on the task at hand.

_Deep breaths, Nerek..._

_Back straight, lekkus relaxed..._

And with the report firmly in his hands, he was ready.

.:oOo:.

"Cora Arnymta, Iché Ziven and Nerek Etlaas requesting permission to enter,"

"Let them in," Mon Mothma ordered. The doors slid open with a hiss, and came in the trio of medics she'd assigned to the Sith Lord, all sporting faces of utmost concern, albeit with varying degrees of other emotions on the younger ones. The Human female's-  _Ziven's_ \- eyes had a barely visible, brief (but there nonetheless) flash of disgust.  _Not one for politicians, then,_  she concluded. Etlaas, on the other hand, was unnaturally stiff, hazel eyes fixed to the a spot on the conference table. It didn't take a keen eye to see that he was nervous.

Arnymta, once again proving her professionalism, calmly greeted the High Command with a dip of her hooded head, which was hastily followed by her fellow medics.

"Good evening, Sirs and Ma'ams," the tall Mirialan said.

"Good evening, and welcome, doctors," Mothma replied. "So, shall we begin?"

Collective agreement rippled throughout the room. The Chandrilan senator nodded, a cue for Etlaas to read their report.

"The explosion had no lingering effect on Vader, thanks to the armor," Etlaas recited, eyes never leaving the datapad, "but Vader's injuries  _prior_ to the Rebel attack are... extensive. That's why Vader requires life support..." The young Twi'lek took a deep, shuddering breath, as if bracing himself for what to come.

Seeing her colleague in such a distressed state, Ziven stepped in. Etlaas gladly handed her the 'pad and slid back to Arnymta's side.

"To clarify what Dr Etlaas said earlier," Ziven began, her voice the epitome of clinical disconnect, "Vader's life support is an integral part of her armor."

Etlaas winced at the form of address, his slender form almost hidden by Arnymta's robe. At this change, a voice piped up from Mon's left side, hushed accusations spreading like gossip in teenage circles.

"Did you say  _her,_ Doctor?" Mon inquired, the slight force in her tone effectively silencing the whole Command.

Ziven wasted no time in answering. "Yes, I did."

The mutters started again, demand after demand bombarding the medics in rapid succession. However, Bail stayed silent, his eyes far away. If Mon hadn't known him better, she wouldn't have caught his desperation to hide the war in his mind, whatever it was. She decided to ask him later, when they were no longer surrounded by bloodthirsty generals.

"Order!" she finally commanded, earning her a thankful glance from the Alderaani senator as the noise died down. "Please continue your report, Dr Ziven."

The medic nodded curtly in reply. "To answer your questions, ladies and gentlemen, yes, Darth Vader is, in fact, a woman." She paused, green eyes meeting every gaze firmly to gauge their reaction, and finding none but grumbles regarding Imperial sexism, she read on. "The injury she received before the bombing on Lavach includes third-degree burns and infections on the flesh, especially where the prosthetics are embedded - Vader's right arm was severed from the elbow down, and the others are barely stumps."

Some of the faces stayed utterly unsympathetic, but Mon could see disgust, horror, even pity in some's eyes, especially Etlaas', whose every breath betrayed his inexperience. The young Twi'lek stayed unprofessionally close to Arnymta, his thin, violet hand discreetly holding hers as if she was his anchor to sanity...

"The major blood vessels are all cleanly cauterized, so we can conclude that Vader's limbs were severed with a lightsaber," Ziven said over the din. "Besides that, some of her organs have lost their ability to properly regenerate. We see that not all the substances infused into her life support are indeed, life-supporting.

While these intravenous lines feed essential nutrition to Vader, Rennod-3, which you can see here," she pointed at a green liquid, "has quite a different effect. To keep it simple, it gives signals to the brain that trigger violent reactions.

"Not only that, we found an uncommon chemical somewhere else." There was a brief pause, where the young Nubian caught her breath. "Although kouhunin is enough to relieve pain even in the most severe cases, whoever made this suit had given her extra precautions," her pale hand zoomed into a glowing liquid now, "based on our analysis, the main function of this yet-to-be-named substance is to increase Vader's pain threshold.

"Another content of this... supplement, however, stimulates the emotions. We only know this based on the part of the brain it works on, but  _how_  it does cannot be explained in medical terms. Its page on the Imperial database, apparently, is firewalled, so I suspect there is more into it than just making Vader a killing machine..." At her personal admittance, Ziven cleared her throat uncomfortably, but she recovered the following second. "Any questions?"

"We will  _only_  answer questions pertaining to Vader's medical condition," Arnymta added, rather sharply, Mon might say.

When there was no answer, the former senator looked around, but few of her colleagues were interested in Vader's medical condition, but rather, the possibility of her execution. Resisting the urge to sigh, she glanced at Bail, who responded with a shake of his head. "Later," his brown eyes seemed to say, and so, after receiving the medics' report, she dismissed them. A discussion was in order, one with possibly dire consequences...

.:oOo:.

"Now what?" Iché thought out loud as she and Cora took their seats in the doctors' lounge on the corner of sickbay, mind not really on the question but on their, ehem, prescribed  _delicacies_ \- ration bars and a cup of caf.

"Now we eat, Iché," Cora chuckled, taking out her own ration bar. "You look like you're hungry enough to eat a bantha."

"I'm not hungry, Cora," Iché grinned, "I'm absolutely famished!" She devoured the nutritious yet tasteless meal in just a few seconds before gulping into her extra strong, extra thick, extra bitter caf-

"Fierfek!" She spat out the liquid that had burned her tongue, hissing as the boiling caf touched her wrist... To make things worse, her hand promptly released the mug and it fell down and broke into a million pieces. "Blast it!"

"Iché, calm down," Her former teacher soothed, producing a piece of cloth from inside her robe to clean the floor, "it's okay."

Swearing (again), Iché stood up to help her. "You don't have to clean every mess I make," she half-sulked. "I'm not your apprentice anymore."

Cora smiled slightly and stopped cleaning (much to Iché's surprise) in favor of healing the peeling skin on her wrist.

She wanted to protest, but she found it insanely difficult to do when a patch of cooling bacta was sending relief all over her nerves. "Thank you," she sighed, before resuming their chore of ridding the floor of shattered glass. But something was off... wait... "Cora, where's Etlaas?"

Cora stood up, hooded head peeking out from the door. The veteran doctor could see almost every patient and a few on-duty medics, lifeforms and droids alike, but there was no sign of Nerek Etlaas' purple lekkus. Shaking her head, she told her former protege, "Maybe he's in the cafeteria."

But Iché wasn't so sure. "Impossible," she scoffed, "he's too shy to go anywhere half as crowded as the cafeteria."

"So where..." Cora broke off, remembering how he'd acted since Vader was assigned to them, and gasped. "Oh, no."

"What?"

The Mirialan's face darkened. "I think I know where he is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know this chapter gives you more questions than answers, but that's what mystery fics do, right?
> 
> Still, I'd like to hear your thoughts!
> 
> Till next time,  
> Reg


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